One day he came out into a vast clearing in the forest, and saw in the midst of it a strong and splendid castle. Between him and the castle lay a wide meadow; and clustered all round the meadow verges, bright as the small flowers of spring time, were tents and pavilions, striped and chequered, blue and violet, green, red and yellow, each blinking with goldwork on fluttering pennants. And in the open midst of the meadow a great tournament was going forward.
Five hundred knights at least, he judged, were taking part; and half of them were cloaked and armed in black as glossy midnight-deep as ravens’ feathers, while the other half were cloaked and armed in white; the proud fierce white of swan’s wing or lightning flash. And the white knights had taken up the side towards the castle, while the black had the side towards the forest, so that their backs were to Sir Lancelot as he sat his horse and watched them.
And as he watched, it seemed to him that the raven ranks were getting the worst of the contest. He saw that they were beginning to fall back towards him; and his lance hand itched and his knees tightened their grip on his horse’s flanks, and instantly he was on their side, as he had always been on the side of anyone hard pressed by a stronger man. And next moment, scarce knowing what he did, he had struck in his spurs and, couching his lance, was out from the woodshore to their aid.
He took the first knight to come against him with such force that he brought down both horse and rider; the next he got with the point to the helmet-crest, the most difficult stroke of all and only to be attempted by a master. Then thundering on, he broke his lance against a third man’s shield, yet unhorsed him all the same; and drawing his sword, plunged on into the thick of the struggle. And there he fought so valiantly, dealing out such skilled and mighty blows, that he should surely have carried off the crown of any tournament. Yet it seemed that not all his strength and skill and valour could avail against the ranks of the white champions. His blows might have landed upon mighty tree-trunks, or Joyeux have been no more than a sword of plaited rushes, for all the harm he seemed able to do the men he fought with, and he was powerless to check their forward thrust that drove the black knights back and back.
Again and again he charged them, striving to break an opening in their ranks, again and again he failed, until he could barely lift his sword arm for weariness, and though there was no scathe on him, his whole body was drained of strength as a man sore wounded may be drained of his life’s blood.
At last a band of the white knights surrounded him and bore him down by main force, and dragged him off into the forest; while without his aid the raven ranks were quickly overwhelmed and put to flight.
Once in the forest, Sir Lancelot looked for death and did not care; but his captors simply turned him free, and that was the worst shame of all.
‘Let you remember,’ said one of the white knights, ‘that though it comes about by our strength and not by your choosing, you are of our company now. Remember that, and ride on your way.’
One of them gave him his sword again, and he sheathed it, fumblingly, at his side. And, slumped wearily in the saddle, his head on his breast, he rode away.
Never before, no matter how long or hard the fighting, had this dreadful weakness sapped his sword arm; never before had he been captured and then turned free in casual mercy. And what was left of his pride was bleeding-raw within him. Now, he thought, I have lost everything; my love, and the strength of my knighthood; and God’s face is still turned away from me.
That night he passed in a wild and craggy place far from the haunts of men, dividing the dark hours between little sleep and much prayer. And in the morning, when the sky was clear-washed with light in the east, and the birds began to sing, he prayed again; and as he prayed, and the sun rose and dazzled into his eyes, a new feeling came upon him. Not hope, quieter than hope, but a kind of peace, an acceptance that what had happened to him yesterday, whatever happened to him henceforth, it was God’s will for him; even if it was God’s will that he should remain shut out.
And he saddled his horse again and rode on.
He came at last to a valley running down between sides of sheer black rock, to a mighty river. And on the bank of the river, mounted on a great warhorse of his own colour, waited a knight in armour so black that the blackness had a bloom on it like the bloom on a thundercloud, and cast its own darkness over the daylight all around. At sight of Sir Lancelot he struck in his spurs and came for him full tilt, at such speed that there was no chance of avoiding him, nor of getting in the first thrust. His levelled lance took Sir Lancelot’s horse in the breast, so that it screamed and reared up, then came crashing down with its scarlet heart’s blood fountaining from the wound. And the black rider on his black steed whirled on unchecked, and in a few breaths of time was lost to sight.
Sir Lancelot scrambled to his feet, and stood looking down at his dead horse; and grief was heavy in him, for they were old friends and had been through many adventures together. But for himself, he cared nothing that he had been worsted yet again. All that was over with him. He accepted it as the will of God, and unslung his shield from the saddlebow, and started walking towards the river.
When he reached it, he saw how wide and deep and fast it ran, so that there could be no way over without a boat or wings. The rocky bluffs on either side of the valley were beyond any man’s scaling, and to turn back into the forest would be a backward-going over the way he had come. So he laid aside helm and shield, and lay down in the lee of a mossy outcrop of the rocks on the river bank, for the daylight was fading fast, to wait until God should show him the way forward.
And so he fell into the deepest and quietest sleep that he had known for many a long night.
And now the story leaves Sir Lancelot and tells again of Sir Bors.
9
Sir Bors Makes a Hard Choice
FOR MANY DAYS after he left the lady of the tower Sir Bors wandered, while the forest darkened to full summer about him.
And one warm heavy noontide he came to a place where two tracks crossed each other. And as he checked there, wondering which to take, he heard the sound of horses’ hooves; and looking in that direction, he saw riding hard towards him two hedge-knights, and between them his own brother, Lional, stripped to his breeks, and with his hands bound before him. One of the knights was dragging his horse by its shortened rein, and the other had a long spiny thorn branch in his hand, with which he was viciously lashing their captive as they went.
Bors was just about to dash to the rescue when the hoof-drum of another horse ridden at full gallop came upon him from the other side, and with it the sound of a woman screaming. And snatching a desperate glance that way, he saw a knight riding furiously across the open glade, with a maiden across his saddlebow, who fought and screamed in the grip of his bridle-arm, her long fair hair flying over his shoulder like a banner of pale silk.
Seeing Sir Bors, she screamed more loudly yet, and held imploring arms to him as the horse plunged on into the trees. And, the hedge-knights drawing near, he saw his brother’s face turned to him in wild hope as he was dragged past, and as they turned down the middle track, his brother’s back, crimson-striped from neck to waist, and the blood oozing out between each stroke of the thorn branch.
The choice must be made, and on the instant, and the making of it felt like something within him being torn in two.
He flung a hurried prayer heavenward, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, protect my brother for me until I can come back to his aid!’ And before the prayer had flown, he was away full gallop after the knight and the maiden.
It was not long before he had them again in sight, and shouted after them, ‘Sir knight, set the maiden down, or you are a dead man!’
At that, the knight checked, and slipped the maiden from his saddlebow; but then hitched round his shield and drawing his sword made straight for Sir Bors with a bellow of fury. But Sir Bors was ready for him, and beat up his blade, then slipped his point in under the shield and took him below the breast, bursting through his
hauberk and the body-flesh beneath, so that he flung up his arms and pitched from the saddle, and was a dead man before he hit the ground.
Then Sir Bors went to the maiden, who was standing white-faced nearby. ‘Damsel, you are safe now from this knight. What more would you have me do?’
‘Accept my thanks,’ said the maiden, ‘and take me home – oh, pray you take me home; it is not far from here.’
Everything in Bors was crying out to be away back to his brother; but he could not leave the maiden alone in the forest; so he fetched the dead knight’s horse and mounted her on it, then remounted himself, and led the way in the direction that she bade him.
They had not gone far when they met with twelve knights, who set up a joyful shout and came spurring towards them. But when Sir Bors would have drawn his sword again, she stayed him, saying, ‘These are of my father’s household. They will have been out scouring the forest for me.’
Then there was a joyful coming together; and the maiden and the knights would all have had Sir Bors return with them to her father’s castle. But Sir Bors shook his head. ‘Gladly I would come; but I have sore need to be elsewhere, and that as quickly as may be!’
And seeing in his face that the matter was indeed desperate, they pressed him no further, but bade him God speed. And so he left them and headed back as fast as his horse could carry him, to the place where he had abandoned his brother, and on down the track that the hedge-knights had taken.
He had followed it but a short way, when he came upon a tall man with face half-hidden by a monk’s dark cowl, standing beside the way, and reined in to ask if he had seen them pass.
‘Look for yourself,’ said the monk, ‘and see that which was your brother when you left him.’ And he pointed down into the wayside tangle of fern and brambles. And looking where he pointed, Sir Bors saw, as it seemed, the body of his brother Lional, with the blood still fresh upon it, lying there like a broken toy that some careless child had thrown aside.
Grief broke over Bors in a wave, and he dropped from his horse, and kneeling, cradled the body in his arms. And within himself he cried out, ‘Lord Jesus, I prayed to you to guard him, and you did not heed! You did not heed!’ But he thrust the desperate protest aside, and said, ‘Oh God, Thy will be done,’ and lifted the body, feeling it almost weightless in his arms, and laid it across his saddle. And to the monk standing by, he said, ‘Good sir, is there a church or chapel near here, where I can bury my brother?’
‘There is,’ said the monk. ‘Do you follow me, and I will lead you there.’
And so, leading his horse, Sir Bors followed where the cowled figure led.
Presently they came to a tall, strong-set tower rising among the trees as though it too were rooted there rather than built by the labour of men, and close beside it a moss-grown and deserted chapel. Before the chapel door they checked, and Sir Bors lifted down the body of his brother, and carrying it within, looked about for some fitting place to lay it down. The light in the chapel was dim and green, and showed him in the centre of the place a great flat-topped tomb of carved stone. And there, since there seemed nowhere else, he laid the body.
But search how he would, he could find neither cross nor candles nor any sign of Christian usage in that place.
‘It grows late. Leave him here,’ said the monk. ‘Spend the dark hours yonder in the tower; and in the morning, come back with me, and we will bury him as befits a knight.’
So with a heavy heart, Sir Bors left the strange chapel, and followed the monk into the tower hard by.
Now from the outside, the tower had seemed as forsaken to the hoot-owl as the chapel beside it; but as he crossed the threshold he was met by the glow of torches and the music of minstrels, and surrounded by many knights and ladies in gay silken garments, who made him welcome and brought him into the Great Hall and helped him to unarm, and gave him a robe, gold-diapered and lined with the softest marten skins, to cover his shirt.
Then a lady came into the Hall, more beautiful and gracious than any woman that ever he had seen before, with eyes as softly and deeply blue as nightshade flowers, and hair that shone red-gold through the purple silken web that bound it up. She came to Bors, and bade him welcome also, for clearly she was the mistress of the strange stronghold; and led him to sit beside her on a cushioned bench, while the pages and squires made the long tables ready for supper. And she asked him how he came to be there; and he told her of his quest, and of his brother’s death, at which she made soft sounds of grief for his grief, and would have taken his hand where it lay upon his knee, but that slowly, and careful to do her no discourtesy, he drew it away.
When he did this, she started and trembled, and asked him, ‘Bors, am I ugly to you?’
‘No, lady,’ said Bors, ‘you are among the fairest that ever I saw.’
At that she sighed, and smiled a little. ‘Then let you prove it to me. For so long – since first I heard account of you at Arthur’s court, I have held you in my heart and waited for your coming. So long, I have waited, refusing others who might have made me happy, for your sake. And now – will you not love me in return?’
At this Bors was silent, not knowing what to say. And in a little the lady said, ‘I can give you power, greater riches than any man has ever had before you.’ And that made it a little easier for Bors to hold out against her beauty and the soft light in her eyes.
‘Ah, lady,’ he said, ‘I have told you of the quest on which I ride, and that my brother, whom I loved better than anyone else in the world, lies newly dead in the chapel at your gates, I know not how or why. I am not free to love any lady.’
‘Forget the quest,’ said she, ‘I can give you greater joy. Your brother is dead, and grieving will not bring him back.’ And she leaned forward, holding out her hands. ‘It is not easy for a woman to beg a man for his love, but I lay down my pride and beg for yours, for I love you as never a woman loved a man before.’
‘Lady,’ said Sir Bors, ‘I would do anything else to make you happy, but this I cannot do.’
Then she began to weep, and rock herself to and fro like a woman keening for her dead, and pull down her bright hair all about her. And Sir Bors, suddenly weary, got up to go and seek his armour, that he might return to the chapel.
When she saw that none of this could move him, she cried out to him, ‘You are cruel and heartless! A false knight; for you have brought me to such grief and shame that I will kill myself before your eyes, rather than live another hour to suffer so!’
And she bade her knights lay hold of him and bring him out to the courtyard and safe-keep him there. And she called twelve maidens from among those in the Hall; and bidding them follow her she climbed the outside stair to the highest rampart. And when they stood there between the torchlight and the moon, one of the maidens called down into the courtyard, ‘Sir Bors, oh, Sir Bors, if you are a true knight, have pity on us now, and grant my lady what she begs; for if she jumps from this tower for love of you, we must assuredly jump with her, for we are hers, and cannot let her die alone!’
Bors, standing pinioned, looked up at them, seeing how fair they were, and how young, and pity tore at him; and he shouted back at them in a fury, ‘If your lady jumps, and if you jump with her, that is for you to choose. I cannot and I will not love her.’
At that, with wild lamentations, they all sprang out into the empty air, and fell like so many bright birds brought down by the fowler’s arrow.
And Sir Bors tore himself free, and in the horror of that moment, crossed himself.
In the instant that he did so, he seemed to be engulfed in a great cloud of stinking darkness shot through with murky flame, and a great shrieking and howling as though all the fiends of Hell whirled about him. He was beaten to his knees, deafened and dizzy as it seemed the whole castle turned upside down. And when, little by little, the cloud and the tumult cleared, and he shook his head and looked about him, the tower and the lady and the knights and maidens were all gone. Only his armour lay scattere
d in the moonlight on the sour grass before him, and his horse grazed undisturbed nearby; and he was crouching beside the doorway to the deserted chapel.
Still on his knees, he thanked God for his deliverance, then, getting to his feet, stumbled inside.
But there was no body lying on the ancient stone tomb, no sign of his brother anywhere; and it came to him that what he had thought was Lional’s body must have been, like all else of that night’s adventure, part of a snare laid for him by the Lord of Darkness.
All might yet be well with Lional, and his heart lightened with a gleam of hope; and it being by then near to dawn, he armed himself, and whistled up and saddled his horse, and set out once more along the forest ways, hoping that somewhere ahead he might get word of his brother.
Two days later he came to yet another castle; and close before it he met with a young squire, and checked to ask him if there was any news worth the telling and hearing.
‘Indeed yes,’ said the boy, ‘tomorrow there is to be a most splendid tournament here, between our own knights and those who follow the Count of the Plain.’
Hearing this, Sir Bors determined to stay until the morrow. It might well be that other knights of the Grail Quest would gather to such a tournament, and from someone among them he might get word of his brother. Maybe Lional would even come himself. For he had begun to hope that his sight of Lional captive and beaten was as unreal as the rest of the night’s adventure that had followed it.
So, thanking the squire, he made on towards a hermitage which he could just see far off on the forest verge, hoping to beg shelter there for the night.
The King Arthur Trilogy Page 33